


The curves of your lips rewrite history

by FoggyDevil



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 16th Century, 17th Century, 18th Century, 19th Century, 20th Century, Demon Foggy, English translation, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Half demon matt, Historical References, Kobal - Freeform, Like centuries slow, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6599911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoggyDevil/pseuds/FoggyDevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock meet for the first time at the beginning of the sixteenth century and, if questioned on the matter, they will strongly deny their involvement with the establishment of the Sacra Custodia Pontificia. After all, there is no evidence supporting their implication, and all the alleged witnesses are dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The curves of your lips rewrite history

**Author's Note:**

  * For [will_p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_p/gifts).



> I don't know what to do with my life, so I write bad fanfic instead of solving my problems.

Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock meet for the first time at the beginning of the sixteenth century and, if questioned on the matter, they will strongly deny their involvement with the establishment of the Sacra Custodia Pontificia. After all, there is no evidence supporting their implication, and all the alleged witnesses are dead.   
Therefore, their first meeting takes place in Wittenberg during 1517.   
Matthew has a personal interest in the monk, his doctrine and his ninety five thesis. Franklin is merely around and can't help himself but drive a wedge between the clerical hierarchy.   
Matthew is among the crowd gathered to witness the display of the thesis when he senses him for the first time. Something inside him awakes after centuries of slumber and his blood starts to boil. The other man is hot. He’s all burning embers and scorching iron just out of the furnace. The intensity of that heat makes his skin frizzle like boiling oil. Matthew is both lured and repulsed by it. He follows that fiery trail that burns his flesh and bones until he's right next to the source.   
So close it’s like being licked by Hell’s fire, flames entering his mouth and nose, burning his lungs. He's morbidly fascinated by it.   
There is a voice screaming to turn around and run as far as possible from there. Yelling that the heat enveloping him and not letting go is something  _ wrong, damned, horrific, go away, go away, go away. _   
But there is also something else, something dark and subtle that whispers into his ear to stay. Something pleasant and seductive that begs him to stay and be taken by the flames, to breathe in the fire till he's nothing but ashes in the wind.   
Something that urges him to reach out and touch, just a little bit. Touch the flames and let the the heat burn his flesh, detach his skin, melt his fat and turn his bones to dust.   
In a trice the other man moves and his hand is on Matthew’s arm, and it burns burns burns but it doesn't hurt.   
Suddenly the river of lava impetuously flowing in his veins slows down, the air he's breathing is no longer scorching. All of a sudden everything inside him, the fire, the voices, calm down. All it's left is just the warmth of a fireplace, intimate and cozy.   
The next moment the earth under his feet is collapsing and he can feel his stomach lodging in his throat.   
Before he has the time to lose his balance, he's stable again, and the air around them smells like gunpowder.   
Matthew needs a moment to realize they're not in the crowd anymore.   
"What the Devil..."    
"Not really, close though."   
A demon. This man is a demon. That explains the warmth and the fire. Honestly, Matthew should have know right away.   
The demon's voice is totally different from what he thought it would be. It's not deep, hoarse or scathing. There is no viciousness or malice in it.   
It's a clear and light voice and Matthew can hear a smile lingering in the air.   
“You're not human” says the demon, curious “Not human at all. You have fire in you, but not too much. Half demon?” he asks, tranquil.   
His hand is still on Matthew's arm and he can't think of and answer, lost in that magnificent glow.   
It's just when the demon let's go that he can finally nod.   
“Half demon indeed” without the other man's touch, Matthew feels cold and shivers lightly.   
“Who is your father?”.   
Matthew frowns because asking a demon or half demon their lineage is considered highly improper even for infernal standards.   
He's never met a non human who asked him that question before. How rude.   
“Your mother never taught you good manners?” he asks before thinking better about it “I don't even know your name.” and Matthew knows that that's not the point, really, but he can't help being curious.   
The demon's laugh is totally unexpected and stands out strong and cheerful around them, bouncing off trees and rocks, scattering on a vast area on their right. Matthew knows they're probably in a field near a wood, away from people and populated area.   
“I beg your pardon, it's unbelievably rude of me asking without a proper introductions” there's a rustling sound in the air and, oh God, he's bowing. He's he mocking him? “My name is Franklin, at your service. May I know your?”   
“Matthew” and, okay, not exactly what he was thinking about saying, but it's too late now “My father is Shabriri” there, well done, he didn't want to say that either. Good job.   
“Shabriri? You're the son of Pretty Eyes?”    
Matthew gasps. This demon, Franklin, is totally flooring him. In almost two centuries he has never heard anybody talking about his father that way. Pretty Eyes?   
“Lucifer, isn't this ironic?” franklin keeps talking, unaware of how lost Matthew feels “Riri, the demon who spends the night blinding people, has a blind son. There is something called Divine Justice, but this is simply hilarious!” and again his laugh fills the air and matthew can't help but smile. It is funny. A little bit.    
He wonders who Franklin really is, because he's never heard of a funny demon. He's never met one, anyway. But Matthew is far too polite to ask.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
1520   
They meet again in Stockholm. It's november, it's cold and suddenly the air smells like gunpowder, and the fire lits again in Matthew's chest.   
  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
1553   
Franklin and Matthew are in Moscow to be witnesses of the madness of the Tzar of All the Russias. Franklin is delighted about it and his laugh is always so cheerful, and his fire warms Matthew up from the ice cold winter.    
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
1665  
When, during spring, Franklin invites him to spend some time in England together, Matthew is eager to accept.  
“I should have say No.” he avoids another puddle of dirty water and bodily fluids that he doesn't even want to start to investigate the nature of “Next time that you're going to invite me somewhere I will said No, thank you very much.”  
“You don't know how to have fun, Matthew.” his laugh never changes along the years. Just like the fire Matthew can feel lit up in his blood every time Franklin is a couple of miles close.  
“As strange as it may seem, I can't find the Bubonic Plague a source of amusement” Matthew hisses back.  
Franklin keeps laughing.  
They stay in London another year, just in time to witness to the fire that destroys the majority of the city.  
Matthew and Franklin neutrally regard the scene from the opposite bank of the Thames.  
When Matthew asks, Franklin swears he doesn't have anything to do with it. Matthew believes him, because the fire that follows the demon is completely different from the flames that are devastating the city.  
Franklin's fire burns peaceful and controlled, like a fireplace, warming Matthew up from the inside, and he welcomes it in goodwill and familiarity.  
The blaze in the city burns violent, it ruins and destroys, a beast that roars for three days, at the end of which almost nothing stands.  
Matthew doesn't like that kind of fire.  
“Who are you really?” His voice is quiet when he asks, leaning closer to the demon sitting at his side. Their shoulders touch.  
“Kobal” and Matthew wonders how can he always smile. “Dramatist and manager of the infernal theater. What? What is it?” he adds when Matthew can't hold a chuckle.  
“I should have seen that coming.”  
“You can't see anything.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Some years later they're in a French theater to attend to the debut of L'Avare.    
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
“Have you ever killed?” is the only question that night.   
“No”, is the only clear answer.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
1753   
Franklin loves theater, and Matthew offers to go to the opening night of every new play. Franklin loves Goldoni.   
Matthew loves classical music and opera, and Franklin takes him to listen to the great orchestras. Matthew Loves Mozart and Franklin.   
  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
1789  
The Bastille is burning and Matthew and Franklin witness to the beginning of a revolution. Around them people and soldiers are running and screaming, there are blasts and smoke, noises, dust, fire, and Matthew risks more than once being pushed to the ground. Franklin is right by his side, he supports him, enveloping him in his familiar warmth, so different from the July mugginess and the heat of sweating bodies at war. He drives Matthew away from the crowd, away from the fight, along narrow streets and crooked alleys.  
“You should make sure that Andrè is all right.”  
“Matthew-”  
“Franklin.”  
André is Franklin's lover in this age, these years, this place. Matthew may not like everyone of his lovers – men or women – and that Franklin decides to stay with him, in moments like this one, makes him feel important. A petty and selfish caprice that slides under his skin and makes him shiver because Franklin is here with _me, me, me._ And then he feels guilty because those people don't deserve his hate. And, regretful and embarrassed, he finds himself pushing Franklin to go and take care of them.  
“It's gonna take just a few minutes.” Matthew nods, and in a moment the demon's warmth disappears; just the smell of gunpowder lingers in the air. But the air is full of gunpowder from hours, so there is really no difference at all.  
Franklin reappears by his side an hour later and slumps against the wall near Matthew. His heartbeat is sad and his breathing irregular.  
Oh, no.  
“I'm sorry” it's all Matthew can whisper, guilty, while the demon's glow covers him once more.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
“Why have I never saw you downstair?” Franklin is curious.   
Matthew knows that half demon are allowed to the first couple of levels in hell, so the question is totally legitimate. He wonders if he should lie. If he should say something safe, that he's good where he is, thank you very much.    
Franklin has never asked about his mother and, until now, Matthew never technically lied to him. He just omitted some informations.   
Matt is an Illegitimate Child.   
He has been abandoned before for this, chased away like an animal, left alone.   
He's afraid. He doesn't want to lie to Franklin, but he's afraid and selfish and doesn't want to give up the demon's company, the fire that has been warming him up for a century. He doesn't want to give him up.   
But he doesn't want to lie either.   
“I'm not welcome,” he says, shy and soft, and steadies himself for the realisation, the rejection and the icy cold he will feel once Franklin will walk away taking his fire with him. “I can't-I can't go in.”   
And that's it, the moment when Franklin's breath catches for an instant, the moment when Matthew will be left alone again.

But Franklin laughs. Okay, he didn't see that coming.   
“Why didn't I get that right away? It's so obvious.”   
“I beg your pardon?” Matthew is lost. What?   
Franklin nudges him with his shoulder.   
“Matthew, you're so _...crisp _ , I should have understood your lineage the moment I felt you for the first time.” Franklin smiles and Matthew can't breathe for a moment because- because-   
“A Potestas?” asks the demon, and he opens his mouth, closes it, swallows and finally finds his breath again.   
“A Virtue,” he whispers.   
Why is Franklin still there? Demons and celestial beings' Illegitimate Children are what of more abhorrent there is for both parts. They're not allowed in Heaven or Hell, ever. If and when one of these Illegitimate Child, one of these monsters, dies, their spirit doesn't have a destination and is doomed to stay in a limbo where it will be worn down by madness in excruciating pain.   
Nobody befriends an Illegitimate Child. Everybody avoids them, just like with those lepers in London.   
So Matthew does not understand why Franklin is still by his side. He doesn't understand why he hasn't left, disgusted by him.   
Franklin shrugs when Matthew asks.   
“It's you,” he says like that is the only satisfying answer. “And you're deliciously crisp. A wonderful change from all that heat. I swear on Lilith, it's not good for my blood pressure.”   
Matthew is still busy trying to calm down his heartbeat (he's still here, he's still here, he hasn't left, he's not alone) and all he can do is choke out a weak laugh - more than good for Franklin, anyway.   
It's maybe at this moment that Matthew starts to fall in love.   
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
1812   
It's December, the temperature is twenty two degrees below zero, and Matthew and Franklin watch the Napoleonic Troops’ sad retreat from Russia. Bad suited soldiers die because the extreme cold.   
Matthew moves closer to Franklin, grabbing his arm. Franklin leans in and puts his hand over Matthew's. The warmth inside him becomes more intense.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“I don't collect souls, I don't have an interest in it. I'm all about theatre. I just want to make people have a good time.” He shrugs, vaguely casual. “Some demon, mh?”   
Matthew nudges him and leans against his shoulder, seeking his warmth.   
“It's not bad at all” he whispers with a smile.   
Franklin laughs and Matthew falls a little bit more in love.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1863

The Gettysburg battle lasts three days, it’s one of the bloodiest in the civil war, and Matthew feels more than fifty thousands hearts stop beating, more than fifty thousands souls leave this world and follow their path beyond this world.

From the peak of Big Round Top, down to Devil’s Den, running along the railway and the streets, to Cashtown.

Matthew can hear all the dying hearts, Franklin can see all the bodies fall and the souls get back up.

It's horrifying.

Abraham Lincoln is the tallest man he's ever seen, Franklin takes care to let him know. Everett’s two hours long speech is not as strong and sharp as the address the sixteenth President of the United States says in just two minutes.

Matthew is sure that November 19th 1863 is a date that will be remembered in the future of America.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
In the same year Franklin brings him to Paris, because  _ there is this new artistic movement that caught my attention, of course I just want to expand my cultural knowledge, Matthew. _

Matthew can't help laughing when they're in front of Le déjeuner sur l’herbe, since Franklin is excited like a child because _ there are naked women and they're  _ prostitutes  _ and everybody is scandalized, isn't it wonderful? _   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1881

Franklin assumes it's right and proper to let Matthew know that his relationship with Oscar Wilde ended when the poet got married, because Franklin doesn't want to be  _ that _ kind of demon.

Matthew is intimately delighted at the news.   
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“I'm an Incubus, so what better way to satiate myself if not having lots of lovers? I don't like how they rule downstairs. I'm much more of a make-love-not-war kind of guy, you know? And the sex is awesome. Nobody ever complained about that.”   
Matthew could complain because his senses simply refuse to tune out Franklin and he can hear anything. Everything.

It's not good for his health.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1884

Apparently Franklin has a weakness for poets.

This time Matthew doesn't complain too much because he likes Rimbaud's poetry.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Matthew and Franklin became Matt and Foggy ( _ it's way cooler than Frank, Matty, you can't deny it _ ).   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“Matt, meet Marci. Grand Duchess of hell, with 48 legions at her command. Don't let her pretty face fool you, Marci is ruthless and not afraid to show it.”

Marci is also too close to Foggy and Matt tries to avoid to growl at her. 

The stink of dead flowers following her is sickening.   
“Oh, Foggy, you always say the nicest things about me.”

Matt tightens his hold on Foggy's arm. He would like to pull him away, to move farther away from her, but he knows he can't do it.

He's an Illegitimate Child and he can't do anything against a Grand Duchess of hell. He's already lucky enough she didn't annihilate him as soon as she saw him.

Nobody likes an Illegitimate Child.

Except for Foggy.   
Before disappearing, leaving behind just a stench of burnt dirt, Marci places a kiss on Foggy's cheek.

It takes weeks before Matt can't smell dead flowers on his demon's skin.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1912

The gurgling sound of the ocean sucking down what is left of the shiny new cruise ship gives Matt chills down his back and he has a full body shiver.   
“Are you cold?” whispers Foggy by his side.

Matt gives in to the temptation and nods slightly, leaning closer to his demon.  
He can't help it, because that fire constantly burning in his chest is never enough for him. He needs more.

Foggy holds him in his arms and for Matt is like being enveloped by soft and warm blankets, making him feel good and safe.

A kiss brushes his hair and it's so light he doesn't know if he just imagined it.   
“Better?” Matt nods again, while a blaze blasts in his blood and burns his heart.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1914

The crowd screams like a wounded animal and Matt knows right away that something is wrong.   
“Somebody shot the Archduke **,** ” says Foggy that June Sunday morning.   
“He's still alive.” Matt focuses on Ferdinand’s and his wife Sofia's heartbeats. They're both scared.   
“The crowd is lynching someone. The assailant, I suppose?”

Foggy nods. “Yeah, I can see that. Police are arresting him right now.” The sigh he gives sounds tired to Matt’s ears. “Believe me, time two months and there will be war. My bosses will be so happy about it.”

Franz Ferdinand dies at eleven o’clock in the morning June 28th 1914, the war starts after a month and lasts four years.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1939

Somebody is yanking him by the arm, Foggy is shouting something in German and Matt is about to panic.

For a moment too many information assault his senses, too many shouting voices, too many agitated bodies, too many smells mixing together. He would like to shout stop stop  _ stop _ , he would like to tell Foggy that he doesn't like when he speaks German, he prefers it when Foggy laughs, because Matt loves his laugh, it makes him feel good, it makes something inside him lit up, something different from the constant heat that follows him when they're together.   
Somebody pushes him and Matt falls to the ground, hitting his head on a step (could it be a step? He doesn't even remember where they are). For a moment the fire inside him flares up with such a force he has never felt before. The next moment everything goes quiet and five unconscious bodies lie on the ground around Foggy and himself.   
And then there's Foggy’s warm and delicate hand through his hair, fingertips brushing the cut on his head. Matt lifts his hand, tentatively looking for Foggy's arm, and when he finds it he holds onto it for dear life, holding onto that familiar warmth that makes him feel so safe and shielded from the outer world.   
The air smells like gunpowder and Matt and Foggy don't go back to Germany until the end of World War II.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1989

November's cold air doesn't make him shiver this time. And not just thanks to Foggy. The atmosphere of joyful excitement that flows through the crowd makes him feel euphoric.

“It’s wonderful, Matt.” The laugh in Foggy's voice is even better than any kind of heat. “Can you hear how many people there are? They're climbing the wall, I'd be blessed, they’re tearing it down, it's incredible.”

Matt can't help but laugh with him while Foggy drives him through the crowd, making his way among the people and leading him right under the wall.

“Go ahead, Matt!” he exclaims, handing him a giant hammer.

When Matt strikes the first hit, Berlin is singing out of joy.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
1969

August’s heat is suffocating. The smell of thousands and thousands of bodies massed against each other - sweat, piss, smoke, food, sex - is completely oppressive on his sense of smell, and his hearing is assaulted by the music and the noises of almost five hundred thousand people gathered in a farm field in the state of New York.

Foggy disappeared somewhere ( _ Jesus Christ, Matty, the energy of this place is insane, there are naked men and women everywhere, I think this is Heaven _ ) more than two hours ago, already, the data around Matt too many and too confused for him to focus on his demon.

The only thing still linking him to Foggy is the fire in his chest. A fire that is growing hotter and hotter. Not just the usual pleasant warmth anymore, but something stronger, more vivacious.

Something scalding that makes him unable to breathe, that makes him gasp, something that pours all over his body, twists around his bones and slides in his muscles, moving from his chest and making its way down, in his stomach, his groin and, oh no,  _ no no no no. _

Foggy is too close. Foggy is having sex somewhere, with someone else, and he's too close. Waves of pleasure flood Matt's body like a mounting tide, and is this what he would feel if he was the one with Foggy? Because it's absolutely fantastic.

Holding up on shaking legs, Matt manages to drag himself through the trees. He can sense a couple of people in the surroundings, but they're not paying him any attention.

He tries to cool down at first, focusing and willing his erection to pass. Unsuccessfully, of course. The bursts of heat increase and Matt can't control the choked moans pushing their way out of his throat. Oh,  _ Jesus _ .

Shivers slide across his hot and extremely sensitive skin, shocks of pleasure crawl up his spine and inside his brain, making him shudder.

His legs don't hold him up anymore and he drops to the ground. Desperately, he tries to hold onto the lasts shreds of willpower he has, but another wave of pure bliss assaults him making him sob, and all is body screams  _ Foggy Foggy Foggy _ and Matt is weak.   
When he pushes his hand under his pants, palming his erection, he can't hold back the desperate groan. He closes his fingers around his cock and starts moving his hand, biting his lips to avoid repeating the demon's name over and over again.

The fire inside is body is hotter and hotter by the minute, like lava flowing through his veins, his skin trailed by shivers and wet with a thin layer of sweat, and his body shakes and the waves are practically constant.

Matt can almost imagine to touch Foggy's body, the demon hot and big and soft above him, touching and kissing him, his long hair brushing Matt's body while Foggy kisses and bites along his neck, his chest, his stomach, sighs Matt's name like a prayer, closes his lips around the tip of his cock and-

There is one last powerful shock shaking him and Matt comes on his fingers with thick long spurts, panting and gasping, forcing air in his lungs, Jesus Christ, he needs to  _ breathe _ .

When Foggy drops down by his side half an hour later, he's tired but satisfied. His hair smells of marijuana, the smell of sex is clinging to his skin, and under that, that smell that is just Foggy mixed with the ever present gunpowder.

Matt needs to drive his fingernails in his thighs to avoid straddling Foggy and begging to be taken right here and now.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
2015

“You want what?”

“Lawyers, Foggy. C’mon, it will be fun.”

“For some weird reasons, I can't see the fun in becoming a lawyer.”

“Okay then, consider it as payback for those first two years in London.”

“That was the plague, Matt!”

“And in this job there will be way less disgusting bodily fluids, Foggy.”

“Oh, Lilith. Okay. You're lucky cause you're cute and I like you.”

“I know.”   
“And where would you want to settle down?”

“I was thinking New York.”   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Matt had the idea and, even though he spends most of his time grumbling and complaining, Foggy takes to heart their future as lawyers.

They find two apartments where to live - not too far apart because Matt can't give up Foggy's warmth - they find an office, and Nelson & Murdock opens for business.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Matt goes out at night because he can't ignore the sirens anymore.    
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
And then Fisk happens.   
  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
When Foggy finds him half dead and bleeding on his apartment floor, Matt has just enough time to realize how much worried and pissed off the demon is before passing out.   
Once he regains consciousness, his wounds are healed and he feels way better, even though he still can't move.   
Foggy is scared, angry, Matt can feel the fire in his chest dimming to a weak light, a candle about to burn out. It's horrible.   
They fight, scream, attack each other, they cry and eventually Foggy leaves slamming the door, ignoring Matt's calling and taking away that last tiny spot of heat left in Matt's chest.   
Now Matt just feels icy cold spreading inside him, freezing his blood, jabbing in his muscles and bones, making him shiver in all the wrong ways.

He wraps the blanket around himself, but the cold is still there and he feels like dying.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


When the fire lits up again, tentatively and shaky, in his chest, his knees almost give up and Matt has to will himself not to crash on the floor and sob in relief.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

With Fisk finally in jail, Matt decides that after six centuries he has done his waiting. But it could be too late.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“Marci?”   
“Yep.”   
“They want you to marry Marci?”   
“Ugh, stop saying that. Why are you still saying that?”   
_ Because it's not possible, I don't want it, you're mine, mine, mine, you have to stay here with me. _   
“Because I still haven't decided if it's a horrible idea or just a ridiculous one.”   
“They're unifying the powers. Lilith needs to offer somebody as a toll, but she can't let go of her generals in an arranged wedding” Foggy's sigh is resigned. “I don't have legions at my command, Matt. I'm just a dramatist, perfect to sacrifice for the cause.”   
Matt drops his cane and reaches out, searching for him, grasping his arms, tightening his grip and not letting him go.   
“No, Foggy, you-you can't, please. Say no.” Foggy's warm hand is in his hair and it’s pulling him to touch their foreheads together.   
“I can't refuse, Matty, you know that. They'd accuse me of high treason.”   
Matt closes his eyes and bites his lips, fighting against the tears that sting behind his eyelids. When he's in control again, his voice is barely a whisper.   
“Don't go where I can't follow.”   
Foggy holds him tighter.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


 

Foggy is not with him and Matt is miserable. It's a week since Foggy was summoned back to Hell. One week without the demon's Fire in his chest. Matt is going crazy. He's not focused, he  _ can't  _ focus, and that's how he finds himself surrender by demons.

“Finally alone, filthy bastard.” The stench of burnt plastic is nauseating and fills his nose and mouth and lungs, choking him and making him retch.   
They're here for him. They're here to kill him.

Matt fights back, but he's tired and can't breathe and the cold is cutting through his muscles and bones, leaving his body pathetically weak, so much  _ human _ .   
And then he's on the ground and somebody is kneeling on his chest and a strong hand closes around his neck and Matt can't breathe.   
The burn in his lungs is totally wrong and so different from Foggy's fire. Matt makes another lame attempt at freeing himself, but it's no use. The demons around him laugh, and it's an horrible sound, like nails on a chalkboard. It makes his ears bleed.   
Matt is about to give up when it happens: the fire inside him explodes white hot like never before. An eruption starting in his chest and travelling all over his body, making him jump, scorching irons working their way through his veins, and Matt would scream if only his breath was still in his lungs.

The weight on his chest disappears and Matt can smell gunpowder in the air and feel the waves of destructive fury coming out of Foggy's body.

_ Foggy Foggy Foggy. _

There's one last blast and then everything is over.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


 

 

Foggy hates killing. Foggy never killed anyone, although he had many occasions.

Foggy killed for Matt.   
“You're back” whispers Matt between frantic kisses. “You're back.” Foggy's fire is scalding on his skin and overwhelms him completely, waves of heat and pleasure and, oh, it's so much better than that time in Woodstock.

Foggy's hands run over his skin, leaving scorching marks, his mouth is on his neck and Matt needs to focus to keep breathing.

“I'm back” growls Foggy, then bites and Matt yields.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“Even if I wouldn't have killed Ornias and the others, I disobeyed. I'm a traitor now.” Matt nods, letting his fingers dance on Foggy's skin. Saying he's sorry about it wouldn't be totally honest.

“And now what happens?” He asks quietly on his demon's chest. The hand stroking his hair stops for a moment, before resuming it's work, gentle as ever.   
“We keep going as we always did, Matt. We'll just need to be super careful now, because everyone in hell wants to kill us.” It shouldn't be fun, but Foggy laughs and Matt feels just so good.

“Together against the rest of the world, then?”

“As always, Matty”.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


1517

Of course I'm talking about Martin Luther.   
  
1520

Stockholm Bloodbath.   
  
1553   
Ivan il Terribile   
  
1665

London’s plague and, in 1666, the first Big Fire that destroyed the 80% of the city.   
  
1789

The Bastille, obviously. And if Andrè by chance is blind from one eye and has long dark hair, just coincidence, right?   
  
1812

Napoleon's retreat from Russia.   
  
1863

Gettysburg battle. I've been on the battlefield, my host Grandpa told me all the story.   
Still, I'm not American, so if I got something wrong, just let me know and I'll fix it.   
  
1882   
Oscar Wilde marries Anne Hathaway   
  
1884   
Arthur Rimbaud. At that time he was in Yemen   
  
1912   
In case somebody didn't guess, the Titanic.   
  
1914   
I really don't need to explain this one, right?   
  
1939

Nazis start to deport disabled people.   
  
1969   
Woodstock. 3 days of peace and music.   
  
1989   
Berlin's wall.   
  
Foggy is Kobal, dramatist and manager of the theater of Hell.

Patron of comedians, is under Lilith.

Shabriri (or Shalbriri) demon of blindness. He stays over wells and springs at night and blinds everybody who tries to drink from them. Pronouncing a short version of his name is the only way to chase him away.

Marci is Crocell, Grand Duke of Hell who looks like an angel.   
Ornias, demon of harassment.   
  



End file.
